


This Expression

by spellwing777



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Trust Issues, White Fang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwing777/pseuds/spellwing777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“This expression of abandon and surrender, or absolute trust, he reserved for the master alone.”</i><br/>White Fang,  by Jack London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Expression

Daniel knew Rorschach was not going to be an affectionate lover. 

When his partner rolled away from the tangle of sweaty limbs to lie on the other side of the bed instead of curling against him, he wasn’t offended. He didn’t mind that, after a night of blood and close calls the tense hugs that followed were more like being restrained, suddenly enveloped in a grip that was like being held by a broken deckchair, all angles and sharp elbows digging into his sides (all desperation and inexpressible emotion) and he didn’t feel a sense of loss when they were over quickly. He knew that there were just...some things that his friend (so many other things too) either wasn’t comfortable with expressing yet; or was never going to be comfortable doing.

He also knew the mask was going to stay on; and hoped that one day he would be comfortable with taking it off.

He hoped he would finally trust him enough to be around him with it off; because a few days ago there had been one of _those_ nights; a night of screaming and flashing lights (white sparks in his head, blue and red ones pulsing over the walls) and one of those rare nights that couldn’t end in just a trip to the nest but in a trip to the hospital, stripped of his Nite Owl costume so he could ride in an ambulance, the wail of the siren drilling into his head. That night hadn’t ended in the usual fierce hug, and he worried about his partner out there; barred from seeing him because of white sterile walls and his mask (face).

He could do nothing but stretch out on the couch after a restless sleep of dull pain, trying to recover. The copy of _White Fang_ (dog-eared and ragged, with him since childhood) in his hand looked as pitiful as he did, but at least it would keep him occupied. Keep him from thinking about his partner; who he’d had no way of contacting in the hospital, no way of letting him know he was alive. He’d called Hollis once home; finally coherent enough to ask his mentor over the phone to drop a message to his partner in the usual trashcan Rorschach used as his ‘mailbox’.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he didn’t hear the basement door open. He didn’t hear the footsteps either, dulled by the meds. He woke when he felt a palm resting on the side of his face (the side with the stitches) warm and callused. He sucked in a breath of surprise and fear, before sucking in another of relief at the sight of his friend. He smiled, and almost spoke, but the leather glove moved to lightly cover his mouth, and he fell silent.

They stayed silent for a long moment, matching stares; until Rorschach’s hand moved to lightly touch the stitches, the bruises, the cuts. He kept quiet through this; now was not the time for words reassuring him that he was okay, (not the time for platitudes) and didn’t say a word as his partner straddled him, knees in the couch cushion on either side of his thighs. He still didn’t speak as Rorschach (carefully, trying so hard not to jostle his wounds) settled on his lap; only lightly, though, supporting most of his slim weight on his sharp knees wedged into the couch cushions instead of Daniel’s bruised hips and cracked femur. 

Rorschach was never this blatantly forward and at any other time he would have welcomed this; but he still felt like warmed-up death, and Rorschach was not an affectionate lover, nor was he a gentle one. He was about to speak, but was silenced again by a dry, chapped kiss (all lips and light pressure, not the rough teeth and bruising press of other, desperate times). He sighed, a bubble of tension that had been sitting in his chest over the last few days finally bursting, draining; he slid his eyes shut in quiet contentment. 

When he opened them, he was looking at a stranger.

Well, not a complete stranger (The red hair was really no surprise) never a stranger, really. He knew his stubbornness and political views and the halting way he would express his more vulnerable emotions; so he could paint an emotional picture of the man even if he had no face to go by. For instance, he knew what the body language was saying, even if he didn’t recognize the facial expression.

_I trust you._

_I trust you with this._

Daniel felt no apprehension in closing him in a circle of his arms; no worry about alarming him, overwhelming him. No self-consciousness about pressing him lightly to his chest and tucking his head under his chin; so that nothing but bristly red hair showed. He felt nothing but a warm, tight feeling in his chest under that curled head; so glad to earn trust from a man that had grown up never knowing it. 

_White Fang_ had slithered out of his grip and fallen onto the floor, but he let it lay. He could always read about proud, fierce (lonely, bruised) creatures and the men that inspired trust in them later; right now he could enjoy the real thing, lying warm and boneless in his arms.


End file.
